And maybe I too love the dandelion,
As if it was not a ****,
As if it did not turn quickly to seed.

It may be a fleeting passion,
Like that of spring snow,
Like that of low tide.

And maybe rather, I love the bumblebee,
The one perched on the dandelion
The one trying to make a strong home.

Though this too says little,
For what is love if it cannot last?
For what is love if it cannot stay?

For winter will come and they will die,
Yet I endure with winter,
Yet I endure with memory.